Summer Wishes

Fresh cherries ripened upon the weeping bough, alive with rustic sheen, taut of skin; perfect teeth cleave through the surface flesh and spit away unpalatable stone; for it has no meaning, existing to be discarded, forgotten. Yet without it there would be no more cherries. How easy it is to pass things by, to give so much less than a second thought to that which is trailed in the white-water rapids of youth's turbulent propulsion. In these shallow waters, idealism is baptised like a beloved curse, a holy grail kissed by reflections of a golden sun; embraced and caressed as a lifelong companion with lively but faint hints of desperation, as if a sixth sense of it's true nature, fragility, has already begun to nag. Reality cast out - like cherry stones - from those dreams of the walkers on highways paved with bejewelled optimism. Let the dreamers have their dreams; let them reach and touch the surface of the sun, for who knows if they will ever get burned? How I wish I were like them still. How I envy them the sweet palatial sweep of an open mind. Yet, perhaps they should beware of Summer wishes, wrought from innocence, on still, humid nights; wishes made upon the stars above; beware their wishes are not falling upon the cold space debris of an Apollo rocket. Or some other soulless man made hardware.